


The violets and the bloodroot

by lbmisscharlie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Gardens & Gardening, Gardens are definitely metaphors for lesbian sex in this case, Room of Requirement, Room of Requirement Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 04:56:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7154471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbmisscharlie/pseuds/lbmisscharlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Luna strokes the underside of one tentacle; the plant hums. Hermione’s skin feels warm, her breath humid.</i>
</p>
<p>The Room of Requirement offers up many things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The violets and the bloodroot

A cry goes up from the center of the common room, and a rumble as the table tips up then falls back into place. Someone breaks into a chorus of “Weasley is Our King,” and when Hermione glances over, Ron has his arms up in the air, cheeks flushed pink as his hair with pleasure. The table is surrounded by at least half of the Griffindor house with Ron, Harry, Seamus, and Dean the nucleus of what they’re calling the “Greatest Wizard’s Chess Tournament of Them All.” She has judiciously decided not to comment on Seamus’s naming skills.

Explosions and resultant scattering of broken pieces have been proceeding accordingly for the past hour; she suspects at this point Ron is making up increasingly dramatic moves just to see how far the chipped head of a knight can fly.

In years past she might have lectured them all about how their educational priorities, but the books spread in front of her have nothing to do with Professor Flitwick’s upcoming exam. And in the face of everything they don’t know, everything they need to learn that no one will speak out loud, an evening of wizard chess seems miniscule, anyway. 

Nonetheless, the words on the page make less and less sense the more verses of “Weasley is Our King” Lavender, Lee, and the Creeveys make up.

Gathering her books into a pile, Hermione slips out; the Fat Lady swings closed behind her on a long, drawn out “Weasley can save anythingggggg.”

She’s surprised when she climbs through the entrance to the room of requirement and steps onto soft, mossy ground rather than ancient hardwood. It usually accommodates her with the smells of old leather and warm tea, big broad armchairs and huge mahogany desks, quiet and perfect for studying when everyone else is engaged.

Today, though, damp wood and the heady bloom of spring flowers meets her nose, and her view of the room is blocked by a verdant tangle of branches and ferns. Just on the other side of the castle walls, the wind blows the sharp winter sea air across the school grounds, cutting and biting into skin and skating across frozen puddles. This is – she closes her eyes, breathes deep. Her skin is warm; she envies whoever conjures this room for their use.

Her eyes snap open. She shouldn’t be able to even be here, if someone else is using it. She grabs her wand and holds her breath, pushing aside a cluster of branches with her shoulder to step into the space.

“Oh, hello.” In the center of the room – well, greenhouse? forest? – Luna sits back on her heels, lifting her hands from the ground to look at Hermione. She’s streaked in dirt from nose to knees.

“Hi?” Luna looks so pleased to see her, grin wide and hands at rest on her knees, that Hermione’s disappointment dissipates entirely. Tucking her wand away, she looks around for a likely place to put her books. A birchwood stump inches closer to her, angling its flat top as if tipping a hat. A mound of red-topped mushrooms cluster at its base; she practically expects fairytale elves to open up a door and emerge. 

“Do you want to help?” Luna says. “The snarfalump’s coming up nicely.” In the dark soil in front of Luna’s knees, an immature snarfalump waves its tentacles gently. It is the bright spring green Hermione associates with Easter, April rain, with her mother’s flower beds in the back garden, but the very tips are pale pink. 

Luna strokes the underside of one tentacle; the plant hums. Hermione’s skin feels warm, her breath humid. As if letting Hermione consider further, Luna says, softly, “It’s not a requirement, precisely, but sometimes when it’s all too much getting my hands in the dirt is the only thing that helps. Or looking for blibbering humdingers, but of course they’re hibernating right now.”

“I’m reading every spellbook I can find,” Hermione blurts out. “I don’t – we don’t know enough; I can’t learn it all –” she cuts herself off with a gasp. Luna sits back, looks up at her.

“It will have to be enough, at some point.” She shrugs, but it’s not a dismissal. Hermione kneels in the dirt next to her; Luna is warm, heat where their forearms brush as Hermione settles, heat like she forgets exists in the dark winters in the old castle. 

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Hermione says. “I didn’t think I could –”

“I wanted you to come,” Luna says. She says it like she says everything – frankly and with no embarrassment – but Hermione feels a flush flood her cheeks. 

“Oh.” The snarfalump reaches one tentacle out to touch the back of her hand, surprisingly gentle, and leaves a cold slime behind. Reaching over, Luna wipes it off with a handkerchief. Hermione can just make out the asparagus stalk embroidered on its corner. 

Luna leaves her hand there. “I like being in the same place as you,” she says.

“Oh,” Hermione says again; her mouth tingles when she exhales. She wonders, distantly, if snarfalump slime has malignant properties and Phyllida Spore’s entry on the plant in _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ skates across her mind as she finds herself leaning closer to Luna.

At least when she leaves, her clothes mudstained and her lips flushed and tingling far more, she can blame it on the snarfalump. Ron and Harry won’t know any different.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Mary Oliver's "The Country of the Trees," in which I'm pretty sure the plants are not a metaphor for lady-loving sex but they should be:
> 
> ...  
> And there will always be room for the weak, the violets and the bloodroot.  
> When it is cold they will be given blankets of leaves.  
> When it is hot they will be given shade.  
> And not out of guilt, neither for a year-end deduction  
> but maybe for the cheer of their colors, their small flower faces.
> 
> They are not like us.  
> ...


End file.
